“Haley, this is Michelle, Simon, Ross, Steven, and Jessica. Guys, you know Haley.”
They mumble a distracted greeting in unison like an uncoordinated choir group. Still confused, I raise a hand weakly in response.
“So, what’s the situation?” Brando says, his voice turning authoritative.
“We can’t do anything,” Jessica says, shaking her ponytail. “Every time we post something about the sore throat we get a hundred replies – every one of them about Rex Bentley.”
“Same here,” Ross adds, “we’re commenting, but it’s getting lost in the mix. It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what’s going on. It seems like every two minutes another site posts the story. We can’t keep up.”
“No takers for the Mick Jagger story so far. Sorry,” Simon shrugs.
I glare at Brando with bewilderment at this last one. He shakes his head in a clear ‘don’t ask’ gesture.
“Shit,” he says, walking to the window. “Okay. The bottom-up approach isn’t going to work.”
“Why doesn’t Haley just do an interview?” Jessica says. “She doesn’t have to go in deep. Just deny it with a word and leave it at that.”
“This is the internet,” Brando says, turning around. “There are no ‘denials’ and ‘confirmations.’ There’s just ‘admitting’ and ‘ignoring.’ Haley’s got everything to lose, and everything to gain from this. If she goes on record and denies it, all that will happen is that this thing will get another boost. People expect her to deny it. The only time denying something works is if you’re too big, or respected, or have nothing to—”
Brando looks up suddenly, his mouth open and his eyes round as if he just caught sight of something amazing.
“What?” I say.
Brando walks over to me and puts his hands on my shoulders.
“Haley. Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” I reply, still confused, but able to answer that much.
“I’m going to do something you won’t like. But it’s our only option.”
Before I can say anything, he’s kissing me deeply, and then grabbing his keys as he makes for the door.
34
Brando
I DON’T NEED to call anyone to find out where Rex Bentley lives; anyone who’s been in LA longer than a week knows the place. It’s one of the biggest mansions in the city, and was bought when rockstars like Rex were giants who couldn’t seem to fit their egos into anything smaller. A Tuscan-style villa, its walls are a combination of stark angles, sections jutting out in every direction, as if somebody took a small English village, smashed it all together, and colored it white. It’s the kind of place only a rockstar or a super villain could live in – and I’m hoping Rex isn’t both.
I roll the car up to the tall black gates and push the button on the intercom conveniently placed on the driver’s side. After waiting for about as long as it takes someone to get anywhere in a home that big, a young woman with an accent answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey. This is Brando Nash. I’m here to speak to Rex Bentley.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Brando. Nash.”
“Just a moment, please.”
I drum my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. This time the wait is short. The intercom crackles into life again.
“I’m sorry. Rex isn’t here right now. Can I take a message? What was your name again?”
“Okay,” I say, in my ‘enough bullshit’ tone. “I know Rex is in there, otherwise you wouldn’t have had me hold. Please tell him it’s extremely important, and can’t wait.”
“Hold on just a second.”
I stare through the gates, the massive fountain at the front of his mansion just visible across the curve of the driveway. The intercom crackles.
“Rex isn’t here. Do you want to leave a message?”
“Fuck this shit,” I mutter, to myself rather than the intercom, as I push open the car door and get out. I start jogging alongside the wall, and hear the intercom behind me as it crackles off.
The vast grounds of Rex’s mansion are surrounded by the high walls of someone who has a lot of people he wants to keep out. But it’s also surrounded by plenty of gigantic trees trying to keep those same people from looking in. Though I’ve never climbed trees for the fun of it, as a teenager I went up plenty of drainpipes with a pretty girl at the back window and judgmental parents at the front door.
When I find a tree with a low-enough branch and a good-enough lean I start making my way up. Soon I’m feeling the adrenaline rush and the bone-deep satisfaction of a good work-out, and just like in the gym, I push all the negative thoughts out of my mind. Thoughts like the fact that I’m breaking and entering, like the fact that Rex’s mansion is probably full of security cameras, like the fact that turning up on his doorstep without an invitation doesn’t segue smoothly into asking for a favor.
I get to the end of a wide branch, slowly step out onto the wall, and don’t give myself time to worry about the drop. Before I can think, I’m flailing to get out of a thick, thorny bush, my shirt ripped so badly it looks like netting, and my arms stinging from a bunch of cuts and grazes.
I waste a second checking my elbows, but that’s all it takes before I start running toward the mansion – partly because I want to get this over with, and partly because I think I can hear dogs barking.
After twenty yards there’s no doubt about it. Two tough, black and yellow sons-of-bitches are behind me, teeth already out like they’re trying to nose past a finish line with them. After forty yards I don’t even turn back to look I can hear them so loudly. After fifty yards I can almost feel their dog breath on my neck. But I’m almost at the entrance now, almost at the steps. I speed up, ready to take them three at a time, ready to lower my shoulder and bust through those big doors – the only way I’ve ever done anything – and then—
“Stop!”
I wheel back on my heels, skidding on the gravel in front of the massive steps that lead up to the front door. The second I see him there I raise my hands. It’s Rex Bentley – and he’s aiming a shotgun at me.
“Stop right there,” Rex repeats, his British accent only adding to the intimidation of being at gunpoint.
I try not to flinch as the two dogs stalk past me slowly and settle themselves on the steps between me and Rex, eyeing me dubiously.
“I thought the British didn’t believe in guns,” I say, trying to smile, but too out of breath for anything other than a panting grimace.
“Why do you think I don’t live there?” Rex says, lowering the gun to his side, but keeping it pointed directly at me with his finger on the trigger. He squints a little. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Brando Nash. We go to a lot of the same parties.”
His face is stonier than the fountain in the courtyard. “If the name meant anything to me I’d have let you in when you asked.”
“I’m an A&R guy- was an A&R, for Majestic Records.”
“I don’t know any A&R guys who would do something as stupid as enter my property without permission.”
I’d like to shoot back an appropriately convincing response, but instead all I can manage to do is drop my hands to clutch the stitch in my side and double over a little.
“Wait a minute,” Rex says, stepping down the stairs toward me slowly. “You’re Josh’s friend, aren’t you?”
“Yes!” I say, triumphantly. “We met at the launch party for his book.”
“Yeah,” he says slowly, stepping onto the gravel, the gun a little looser in his hand now. “He said that you were the one of the only guys still hiring him to produce, and I thought that must mean you’re one of the only guys left with an ounce of taste.”
He steps closer and stands in front of me, lowering the gun so the barrel finally points toward the ground. I offer my hand, but he raises his chin.
“So what do you want?” he says, his voice a few degrees colder than before.
; “I’m here about Haley,” I say, tightening my face and standing up straight.
“Haley?” he says, only just hiding the deep note that the name strikes inside him.
“Haley Grace Cooke. Your daughter.”
I can sense his body tighten, see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. For a few seconds it seems like he could go in any direction: Crying, spitting, running… Shooting.
“It’s out in the open,” I say, seeing that he can’t decide. “The news broke last night. It’s still spreading. It’s not a secret anymore. Not unless you do something about it.”
For what feels like hours we glare at each other, no one making a move, but I know Rex isn’t really looking at me, he’s looking deep inside himself. Pulling at old memories, at whatever feelings he has about this. He looks down at the ground and pushes his lower lip out. When he raises his head, it’s high again. He sticks the hand that isn’t holding the gun into his pocket, an attempt to be cool that works only because it’s his job.
“I’ve had everything and anything written about me,” he says distantly, as if remembering all of them at once. “That I’m gay. That I’m a plagiarist. That I’m a Nazi sympathizer. That I’m part of the Illuminati. Even a pact with the devil. It doesn’t matter.”
“This time it’s different.”
Rex’s smile is both condescending and curious.
“Why should it be?” he asks.
“Because this time it’s true.”
Rex’s smile disappears instantly. He looks away, and I see him swallow deeply before he speaks again.
“Why are you telling me this?” he says, his voice speeding up. “I don’t care what some fucking teenager with a laptop writes on the internet. I don’t care about asinine rumors and the speculation of journalists. It might seem like the end of the world to someone young enough to be climbing walls and running from dogs, but I’ve seen real problems. I’ve had friends die before their time of drugs, seen careers ruined and talent wasted in the most disgusting, abhorrent ways you can imagine. And here you are talking to me about a fucking rumor! Here’s a bit of advice: Get the hell out off of my property, and don’t ever come here again!”
Rex turns back toward the staircase. In a split-second I see all the reasons I’m doing this, all of the things driving me to this point. If there’s one chance, this is it, and it’ll be gone if I don’t take it.
I grab Rex’s shoulder and spin him around to face me so violently the dogs on the steps stand to attention.
“You might not fucking care, but Haley does!” I roar, inches away from his face. “The only reason rumors don’t mean shit to you is because you’re hidden away out here! Behind your massive walls, and your dogs, and your shotgun. Nothing can touch the ‘great Rex Bentley.’”
I shove his shoulder away with disgust.
“Only you’re not great,” I continue, momentum behind me, “you’re just a selfish old man. A shell of a person. You want to talk about real problems? How about being a young girl who sees her father everywhere, who feels like everyone knows him but her, and who gets completely ignored by him? How about feeling like you’re unwanted, not good enough, for your own flesh and blood? How about sending hundreds of letters to the one man who’s supposed to love you, support you, teach you how to be a human being, and never getting a word in reply? Not a single fucking word.”
I stand there panting and tense, full of rage and fire. Rex’s stony glare only making me more violent. I keep talking – the only way I can keep myself from doing something physical.
“What you did was unforgivable. What you did would have broken most kids. Screwed them up for life. But not Haley. She still did what she loved. Did it without asking you for anything. Did it despite the fact that you crushed her. Did it better than people who had all the help in the world. Right now, she’s made something good, built herself a life, but those fucking rumors are about to take even that away from her. And she doesn’t have a mansion to hide away inside.”
Even the dogs are cowering back from me now.
“If you ever even thought about her, ever read one of those letters, ever considered giving her that one word – then now is the last chance you’ll ever get.”
“There’s nothing I can do—”
“Bullshit,” I cut him off. “Deny the rumors. Do it so that you can make up at least something for the years of pain you’ve caused. Do it so that you don’t spend the rest of your life in a big, empty mansion regretting who you are. Do it so that you can say you did at least one thing for another person when you’re on your deathbed. I don’t fucking care, but just fucking do it.”
Rex doesn’t move, everything about him fixed in place like an ancient carving. I scowl back at him, feeling drained from the force I put behind each word, from the empathetic hurt I dredged up inside of me. After it’s been long enough that I wonder if he’ll say anything at all, Rex speaks.
“Where did she get an A&R guy like you?”
“I already told you. I’m not an A&R guy anymore. I’m just Brando now.”
Rex’s nod is almost imperceptible.
“Okay. I’ll call a journalist and do it today.”
I open my mouth to speak, but saying the words ‘thank you’ doesn’t seem right. I let the promise hang in the air like a reminder, and turn slightly to go.
“How is she?” Rex says, before I look away.
I smile darkly with the weight of it all.
“She’s a lot of things,” I say. “Too much to tell you myself.”
I turn around, the long, curving, gravel driveway feeling like it leads somewhere better, and take a few steps, before stopping suddenly and turning back. Rex is still standing there, still unmoved. The bastard.
“You know,” I say, taking a step back toward him, “I swore I’d do this right, do this the old-fashioned way, when the time comes. But I never figured it would be like this. I figured that I’d ask for it, but to tell you the truth, I’m sick of asking for things, so instead I’ll just tell you. I’m going to marry your daughter.”
35
Haley
ONCE BRANDO LEAVES, there are a few moments of awkwardness between me and his team, until Jessica offers to explain what exactly they’re doing. Behind groans of embarrassment that five people are trying to repair my reputation, and a slight regret that I never had a team like that when I was in high school, I offer to help. Since they’re posting from my social media accounts, I figure I should supply some photos, so we hook my phone up and start trawling through the hundreds of pics I took on the tour for the best ones.
After about a half hour in which the sound of speed-typing and phones ringing never stops, my own phone rings.
“Take it,” Jessica says without peeling her eyes from the screen. “I’ll upload the ones we’ve pulled from it already.”
“Thanks,” I say, as I pull the cable out and take the phone into the bedroom. “Hello?”
“Haley,” says the serious voice on the other end. “It’s Rowland. Look—”
I don’t give him a chance to beat around the bush. “I know you’re dropping me.”
There’s a pause. “Brando told you already, huh?”
“Yeah, but…I don’t understand how this is going to go. With the contract, the tour, the album.”
“It’s done already. I’ve just had my lawyer draw up the termination. You’ll have to sign it – but that’s only a formality.”
I sigh deeply, cover my eyes with my hand, and drop my ass onto the bed.
“I don’t understand…I just did a whole tour for you, the album is supposed to come out in a few months, and what about the royalties? I…”
“It’s a clean break, Haley,” says Rowland, and I can’t tell from his monotone whether he means that to sound like a good thing or a bad thing. “You’ll continue to get the same royalties from the two singles you released under our label, but that’s all.”
“But that’s not fair!” I wail into the phone. “I just bust
ed my ass on the road for a whole month!”
“And we’ve also been paying for studio time for an album we haven’t even heard yet. We supplied you with the bus, the booking, the planning for you to get your name out there – and don’t forget, Haley, you weren’t even the headliner. As far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”
I stand up, my despair turning into cold, frustrated anger.
“You can’t get away with this! There must be something I can do.”
“Sure there is,” Rowland says, continuing to talk as calmly as if he’s ordering a pizza, “you can hire yourself a lawyer, and try to get us to uphold the contract. We would end up tearing each other to shreds, and it would cost both of us more money than we were even making from each other. Plus, and usually I enjoy saying this, but not now; unless you know the second-best lawyer in Los Angeles, you’ll just bury yourself deeper – because I happen to hire the best myself.”
I don’t speak for a few seconds as I try to process all of it, the sudden loss of everything I built my life around for these past couple of months— no, years. I think about the high-rent lease I signed on for, the almost-finished album with no label to distribute it, the reputation I built up so hard on the road turning into gossip-fodder, and wonder if I’m actually worse off than when I was just playing open mics, serving coffee, and crashing with people I only barely called friends.
Then I hear the door of the apartment open, and quickly hang up on Rowland to see who it is. I’m not the only one: the entire loft is silent now, as the team puts all of their focus on the man at the door in a ripped shirt, with cuts and bruises all over his torso, waiting for some sense of reality to reappear.
“Brando?” I say, rushing toward him and inspecting the cuts. “What the hell happened to you? Where did you go?”
“You guys can stop now,” he says to the team seated around his coffee table. “You’ve all done a great job, but I need you to get out of here. I’ll call everyone tomorrow. Thanks.”
Too stunned and frightened to ask anything else, they pick up their laptops and file past us one by one, Simon closing the door behind him and leaving just the two of us alone. Brando looks at me, his eyes loaded with whatever it is he just went through.
The Bet Page 21
